


Paradoxical (ten thousand years of solitude)

by Nemainofthewater



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, M/M, Temporal Paradox, Time Travel, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, dark themes, no happy ending, set after the series 4 finale, spoilers up to 4x05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 10:42:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17958965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/pseuds/Nemainofthewater
Summary: Eliot and Quentin are flung into the far past after a ritual to kill the Monster goes wrong.Post series 4 finale. AU. Very dark, please proceed with caution.





	Paradoxical (ten thousand years of solitude)

**Author's Note:**

> This is very dark and has heavy themes, including suicidal ideation, depression and violent imagery. Please excuse me for this boatload of angst. Please look at the end for a very spoiler-y recap of this fic if you have any doubts.

Eliot wakes up. This is surprising. He’s spent so long trapped inside his body that he wasn’t sure whether he was ever going to wake up again. It was fine for the first few months when he wasn’t aware he was a prisoner, but ever since Charlton found him and woke him up… The ‘Happy Place’ had started to look a lot less goddamn happy and a lot more confining. He’s wasted hours trying to regain control of him body, trying to communicate with the others.

 

(Once he just walked out of the Happy Place and waited to be killed. It had been a bad day: his previous attempt to escape had only left him with a ten second image of Quentin’s face, blank and covered in blood. If Charlton hadn’t come after him…Well. He’s forgiven Charlton at least.)

 

Looking around, Eliot can see nothing but a wide green plain. It’s freaky how still everything is: there aren’t any birds or insects or human noises. Just silence. Silence and green and a rich golden light. And a groan.

 

Eliot spins around.

 

“Q?”

 

Quentin is curled on his ground and shit shit shit there’s a puddle of red leaking out from underneath him, garish and clashing with the earth around them.

 

Eliot drops to his knees (trying to ignore how good it feels to be able to move his own body and he will never give up his control again never never never), and quickly presses his hand against Quentin’s side. Recoils at the feel of a literal hole in his abdomen.

 

“Quentin, what?” he starts, then shakes his head. “No, it doesn’t matter. Q, can you hear me? You have to hold on. I don’t think that I can get you to a hospital in time. Especially since I don’t know where the fuck we are. You have to trust me, ok? I promise it’s going to be ok.”

 

“El,” Quentin murmurs. He coughs. It sounds painful. Blood dribbles down chin, but Quentin doesn’t take any notice of it. He’s too busy looking at Eliot.

 

“Oh my god El,” he says, “It worked. It worked.”

 

Tears drip from Eliot’s eyes and mingle with Quentin’s blood.

 

“It did Q,” Eliot says, “You did it. You got me out. I knew that you would. My knight in shining armour. And I am looking forward to learning about your self-sacrificing heroics once we get you fixed up.”

 

Quentin has gone still underneath Eliot’s hand. He’s cold and pale, and Eliot’s hands are sticky with his blood.

 

“No,” Eliot says, “No Q you don’t get to do this to me. Do you hear me? You had better fucking wake up because I have something fucking important to tell you. Quentin please you have to wake up. Quentin, I have to apologise for being such an coward. Quentin. Quentin. _Q_.”

 

There’s no reply, and Eliot raises a trembling hand to Quentin’s neck. Nothing. He can’t feel a pulse.

 

“No,” Eliot says quietly. Then louder: “No!”

 

“I fucked everything up,” he breathes, “I destroyed our chances of happiness because I was a cowardly idiot, and then I went and got myself possessed by the Monster because I’m an idiot who doesn’t think about consequences. And you’re paying the price Q. I’m sorry.”

 

Desperately he wishes that he had studied healing magic while he had had the chance. It had all seemed so pointless back then: healing required an innate talent or, failing that, years of dedicated effort. Eliot hadn’t had one and had been unwilling to invest the other. He hadn’t thought that he would long enough to need it or that he would have people he would love enough to use it on.  Well, joke’s on him. Yet another piece of evidence in the mounting pile that he’s a fucking waste of space.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I promised you that I’d do this when I saw you next,” he continues. A kind of numbness has sunk into his bones, “And god I wish that it hadn’t worked out this way. But. Well, a promise is a promise after all, and I don’t want to break one to you. Not ever. Not again.”

 

Eliot leans forward, and softly places a kiss against Quentin’s cold lips. He waits a moment. There’s no gasp, no coughing, no feeling of Quentin coming back to life. It was stupid to think that there would be. This isn’t a fairy tale, only maybe it is: an uncensored tale from the Brothers Grimm, warning unfortunates that those who stray from the garden path inevitably get fucked.

 

He hugs Quentin’s body to him. The numbness that’s engulfed him shifts slightly. His hands tingle, and then the numbness is spreading.

 

Quentin’s body warms underneath his hands to the point Eliot imagines he can feel his flesh reddening and burning. He doesn’t drop it though. He could never do that to Q. A red glow. And then Quentin sighs.

 

Quentin sighs.

 

“Q?” Eliot asks tentatively. He touches his arm. It’s warm: neither scalding hot nor deathly chilled.

 

“Oh my god,” Eliot says, “You’re alive. You’re alive!” He laughs joyfully.

 

Quentin moans, a low pained sound. Eliot freezes. He gently lifts Quentin’s shirt. The hole is still there. It’s stopped bleeding, but it looks painful already turning an angry red.

 

“Ok. Ok. Shit. I did something. I must have done something, people don’t just randomly come back from the dead.”

 

Eliot lightly lays his hands on Quentin’s wound and _pushes_ willing all of his energy through his hands and into Quentin. It’s not how magic is meant to work: there are no elaborate hand gestures or ancient languages. It’s pure emotion.

 

There’s a surge of warmth and redness starts to fade.

 

Eliot wants to punch the air in triumph, but there’s a strange rushing in his ears and suddenly the ground is coming up to meet him.

 

Oh well. At least he missed hitting Q on the way down.

 

The sun is setting the next time Eliot wakes up. He immediately looks over at Quentin. He still hasn’t woken, but he’s breathing normally and looks like he’s sleeping (rather than dead).

 

He still has blood on his shirt. Eliot frowns. He places his hand over Quentin and gives a slight mental push. The blood vanishes.

 

“Ok, what the fuck?”

 

Silence.

 

“Well, looks like I’m back to talking to myself,” Eliot sighs. “Not that you’re not a great conversationalist Q,” he assures him, “But I do generally want a little more input. Or adulation. I would take adulation.”

 

Quentin shivers, and Eliot abruptly realises that with the sun sinking that it’s getting cold. He needs to find shelter, water, something for Quentin to eat when (if) when he wakes up. And maybe something for himself as well: he’s starting to feel dangerously weak. Especially with all the energy he’s used since waking (the first time).

 

He looks around. Everything is still distressingly flat and empty, not a road in sight. Where the fuck are they?

 

“One problem at a time,” he reminds himself. He reaches out, testing the level of ambient magic in the air. Blinks. It’s high. It’s higher than he’s ever felt, including times he’d been in inherently magical places, like the Wellspring, or been standing next to literal gods.

 

“Well, waste not want not.”

 

He faces Quentin and holds out his hands palms up. He delicately lifts them and feels the Earth underneath Quentin rise with them.  There. At least he has a bed. That’s enough for now. He crawls onto the raised mound next to Quentin and curls himself around him protectively.

 

“Good night Q,” he says, “Here’s hoping you wake up soon.”

 

The next morning shines annoyingly bright, and Eliot is unpleasantly remined of an entire childhood of waking with the dawn to feed the chickens and shovel shit. Eliot buries his head into Quentin’s torso, trying to escape from the light. Wait. Quentin.

 

“Quentin!” Eliot says.

 

Quentin is still unconscious, but he doesn’t look any worse than the night before. Eliot supposes that he has to take these small miracles where he can.

 

“Come on Q,” Eliot says, “I know that you’re doing this on purpose now. Payback. I made you wait for months and now you’re making me wait.”

 

He sighs.

 

“No, that’s unfair. I’m sorry. That’s all I seem to be saying to you: sorry. I’m…Q, I’m scared. So I need to wake up right about now.”

 

Eliot waits a moment, and then rolls himself off his uncomfortable bed. He stretches, luxuriating in the pop of his joints.

 

“No rest for the wicked then Q,” he says, “I suppose that I ought to find us something to eat and drink. It can’t help that you haven’t eaten anything since god knows when.”

 

Quentin looks gaunt, even discounting the blood loss and the previously fatal wound. His skin is dry and cracking: something tells Eliot that hydration hadn’t been the top priority in Quentin’s life for the past few months. It makes lifting him into a fireman’s hold that much easier. Almost too easy.

 

“Either you’ve lost an astonishing amount of weight,” Eliot says, “Or I’ve gotten stronger. Maybe the Monster was doing cardio while he was in my body: it seems like the kind of masochistic shit that he’s be into.”

 

But Eliot doesn’t tire. Not for the hours and hours he wanders the plains. He doesn’t get thirsty or hungry either. He only feels a lingering weakness left over from the previous day’s healing.

 

Quentin on the other hand…Quentin starts to look worse. Eliot can feel the fever-heat through his clothes where Quentin’s body touches his.

 

“Fuck it Q,” Eliot says, “Can’t anything go right?”

 

The sun is starting to set again, so he reluctantly abandons his (unsuccessful) attempts to find civilisation and sets Quentin back down on the ground.

 

“Somehow I don’t think that we’re in Kansas anymore,” he says, “Lack of hay bales aside, I haven’t seen a single living thing since we woke up here. Well, I’m going to try something potentially stupid Q. And I know what you’re going to say: ‘No El, you haven’t done anything stupid in your life!’ Well, maybe I’m paraphrasing a bit. But you know I’ve done so many stupid things. And if I can’t tell you when you’re conscious, then I can at least have this.”

 

He smooths Quentin’s hair back and presses a kiss to his forehead.

 

“I love you Q,” he says, “I’m going crazy without you. Though that one may just be the isolation talking. Regardless, I am going to tell you that every single day for the rest of your life, do you understand? Every single day for the next seven decades or so. Maybe more.”

 

He inhales deeply and lets the magic-laden air fill his lungs. Then he channels it through his hands into Quentin, letting the magic rush through him until he can’t bear it any more.

 

He stops, gasping raggedly. His hands are lit gold, little sparks of yellow fire merrily burning although he can’t feel any heat. For a moment he’s afraid that he’s going niffin, but then the flames subside.

 

Quentin looks better though. That’s the important thing. He still needs food.

 

“Q, I’m adding this to the long list of things that you’ll probably never forgive me for,” he says, “But really, what’s a little cannibalism between friends? Although this isn’t exactly what I meant when I said that you could eat me any time.”

 

As he speaks, he is busy rolling the sleeves of his tragically unfashionable coat up until his arm is bared. Quickly, and silently thanking the Monster for having terrible hygiene, he draws the ragged edge of one of his nails across his vein. Blood comes out sluggishly, and he quickly places it underneath Quentin’s mouth, tipping his head back and softly massaging his throat so that he swallows.

 

“I know, I know,” he says, “Very Twilight. But at least you know that you’re getting a fine vintage, hmm?”

 

He tenderly wipes the residual blood from Quentin’s mouth. The wound on his wrist heals. Instantly. Well that’s alarming.

 

But if it means that he can keep Q at least vaguely healthy, he’s not willing to look this gift horse in the mouth.

 

“Huh,” he says. The grass around him has blackened. The level of ambient magic has decreased sharply as well.

 

“That’s really not a good sign,” Eliot says, “But since you’ll be waking up soon, I don’t think that it’s going to be a problem. Not in the long term anyway. We’ll just keep moving until then.”

 

He raises the earth again to form a slightly larger bed, and then curls himself back around Quentin.

 

He wakes again with the sun. Quentin is still asleep.

 

“You do have years of lie-ins to make up for,” Eliot says, “I understand. I really do. Once this is over I propose that we just lie in bed together for a week straight. But it would be great if you could do just one thing for me Q. I just need you to wake up, ok?”

 

He waits a second.

 

“Well, maybe tomorrow.”

 

The days blend together, the only passage of time the sun rising and falling, waiting every morning for Quentin to wake up, feeding him his blood, healing him every evening and falling asleep curled round one another.

 

Eliot starts talking, telling Quentin about the future. Their future. All the things that he had planned out while stuck in the Happy Place. He spends hours describing every single one of their anniversaries, of all the stupid fights they’ll have and the ways that they’ll make up. At night, under the cover of darkness, he talks to Quentin about the past, about a life lived. Stories of Rupert and Arielle, and their grandchildren. He never talks about the present.

 

When he runs out of memories, he starts telling stories, half remembered from childhood and half cobbled out of the most ridiculous things he can imagine. They’re not high art, but he thinks that they would make Quentin laugh.

 

Some time later, he notices that Quentin has grey hairs.

 

“I always knew that I would age better than you,” Eliot says flippantly, heart pounding. Because he doesn’t have access to a mirror here, but he knows that he still doesn’t feel tired, or hungry, or thirsty.

 

There’s something wrong. But he can fix it.

 

That morning, he lifts Quentin’s pale wrist, and mutters a small spell. A drop of blood wells up, and he quickly slashes his own wrist. He joins their wrists together and concentrates. The now familiar golden flames appear and are sucked into Quentin’s arms, slowly lighting up his entire body as they enter his bloodstream. Eliot gasps raggedly. He can feel Quentin’s lifeforce, a small flame. Nothing really compared to what he seems to have. Delicately, he joins the strands of their magic together, shining strand by shining strand.  It takes him hours, or days, or months but he does it. He’s exhausted when he’s finally finished, and instinctively he opens himself up to the ambient magic and lets it soak into his weary body.

 

It was a logical. He has enough lifeforce that can spare a bit (a lot) for Quentin. Now he doesn’t have to worry about him dying, drifting off in his sleep and leaving Eliot alone.

 

“Looks like we did end up getting properly married Q,” he says, “Mazel tov to us I guess.”

 

Time keeps passing. The green plain starts to gain texture, thousands of mounds dotting the landscape as far as the eyes can see. The black, dead spots also spread.

 

“You need to stop.”

 

“What?” Eliot says, breaking off in the middle of a story to Quentin. He might have told it to him before. Maybe a couple of hundred of times. But it’s his favourite story, the day that Rupert finally took his first steps and he and Arielle and Quentin spent the day frantically childproofing the house. There was a lot of laughter. When had he last laughed?

 

“You know that there’s no point,” says the man. He’s wearing a loincloth and has a bird’s head. Whatever, Eliot has definitely seen weirder.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Eliot says tightly. He shifts Quentin to a more comfortable position, reassuring himself that he was still in his arms.

 

“He’s gone. You’re keeping the body alive through sheer force of will. You need to accept that and-“

 

The bird-headed man breaks off with a gasp, potentially because Eliot’s hand has started squeezing his throat.

 

“He isn’t gone,” Eliot snarls, “He’s going to wake up any day now. He promised that we could spend the rest of our lives together, before I fucked it up. He promised. And I promised him back and I won’t ever break that promise.”

 

Instinctually, he opens himself up like he does every evening and pulls the magic toward himself. The bird-man makes a choking sound, abruptly falling limp, but Eliot ignores him. There’s so much power coursing through Eliot’s body, power like he’s never felt before. Maybe this is what’s needed to wake Quentin up.

 

The surge of power cuts off. Bird-man drops down to the ground. He’s evidentially dead.

 

“Actually dead Q, not like you. No patience whatsoever. Definitely an instant gratification type of guy. Looks kind of familiar actually. Is he one of those weird Egyptian hieroglyphic people? You’d know Quentin. I guess you’ll have to tell me when you wake up.”

 

Eliot encounters seven more individuals over the course of the next few days. He gets extremely good at sensing them as soon as they appear and draining their power. He thinks it’s finally working: he can see the hole in Quentin’s abdomen, unhealed after so many years, finally start to shrink.

 

And then one day…

 

He feels them appear. Tens, maybe hundreds of them.

 

He carefully places Quentin on the ground and draws wards around him, protecting him from any harm. Maybe after today, after he’s drained so many, gods, maybe today will be the day he’s been waiting for.

 

There are too many though. And they’ve come prepared.

 

“Monster,” one of the goddesses says, looking down at Eliot, trapped under a metallic net that’s somehow containing his power, “You have killed over a dozen of our brethren. You’ve drained a young world dry of its magic.”

 

Eliot doesn’t answer. He’s looking at where he left Quentin. The wards are down and he’s unceremoniously dropped next to Eliot. Eliot longs to go to him, to hold him, to stroke his hair and tell him stories. But he’s trapped by this stupid fucking net.

 

“Please,” Eliot says hoarsely.

 

The goddess shakes her head.

 

“It’s nothing but a sack of meat,” she says, “Powered and maintained by your lifeforce. We can’t destroy it, not properly. But we can disperse it.”

 

She waves her hands over Quentin’s body, muttering in a guttural language. Several of the others join in, and Eliot watches in horror as cracks start to appear on Quentin’s body, shining brighter and brighter until there is a _wave_ of magic and there’s no more Quentin. Only a pile of rocks.

 

“Noooo,” Eliot moans, struggling against the enchantments. He can still feel Quentin in his mind, that’s the only thing keeping him sane.

 

“Quickly,” the bitch in front of him says, “He’s strong. I can’t hold him much longer.”

 

The assembled gods start passing out the stones, and slowly sinking them into their own bodies until there is nothing left. Nothing to mark that Quentin ever existed in this world.

 

“You will atone for your actions. Be pleased Monster: out of the suffering shall come new life. You’re going to power an entire wellspring. But first,” she pauses looking grim and noble. Eliot hates her with every fibre of his being.

 

“First I think that I’ll take the memories form you. This is a kindness,” she adds, looking puzzled as Eliot starts howling and thrashing against the net, “If you can’t remember him, then you can’t be sad.”

 

And then her hands lower, and Eliot jerks his head trying desperately to avoid her, but he isn’t fast enough and—

 

_“Are you sure about this Quentin?”_

_“I am. You know that Eliot would do the same for me. And anyway, one life versus saving the entire world from the Monster’s tantrum? Totally worth it. You know the maths adds up Jules.”_

_“Your Shade will be obliterated, Q. This is sacrificial magic: you’re literally using your willing sacrifice as a battery to power the spell!”_

_“I know what I’m doing Jules! Anyway, Eliot will have Margo to look after him when he gets back. Sure, he’ll be sad for a bit, but he’ll get over it eventually.”_

_“Q-”_

_“Jules. Please. I need your help. If I mess anything up, anything at all…I mean who knows what’ll happen to Eliot?”_

_“Who knows what’ll happen to Eliot even if the spell does work! We’re killing something that can murder gods Q! And we’re doing it with a ritual that’s cobbled together out of fragments saved from the Library of Alexandria. For all we know it won’t work, or you’ll both be trapped in an alternate dimension, or flung millions of years into the past…”_

_“It’s Eliot. I have to try.”_

_“I am a terrible friend for going along with this.”_

_“No Julia. You’re my best friend. Thank you.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Quentin and Eliot are flung into the past after a ritual gone wrong. Quentin then dies due to a ritual powered by sacrificial magic that he performed to kill the Monster. Eliot doesn't accept that and somehow manages to bring Quentin's body back to life, although Quentin never wakes up again. Eliot finds he has new powers, and start draining magic and feeding it to Quentin to keep him alive. He also feeds Quentin his blood to keep him alive. Finally Eliot ends up draining an entire world of magic, along with several gods. His memories are wiped, and he becomes the Monster.


End file.
